The Hopefully NonMagic Diary of Ginny Weasley
by seven years
Summary: RE-WRITTEN: Ginny fails at life. Especially as the Yuletide approaches, and a mysterious diary finds its way to her. Will Ginny be able to find the diary-sender before Christmas day? Can she unfail life? Maybe. Hopefully. (DracoGinny)
1. Dear Diary Once More

**Note: **This story is being re-written and re-posted.Well, that's a lie. It already has been re-written, so I'm simply taking the liberty of posting the updated version on ffnet. I cringed every time someone read and reviewed the old one, so it was either deleting the entire thing or giving it another go. And in a sense, this is not a re-write at all. Though the core concepts of the original fic remain, many other things have been drastically edited. For the better, I hope. In the meantime, omg plz review lol.

**Summary:** Like every typical (or perhaps not so typical) teenager, Ginny needs a place to find solace from her every day life, consisting of mysterious and possibly deadly diary senders, pretentious snob Malfoy, and an overbearing brother called Ronald Weasley. Will she be able to find the perpetrator before Christmas day?

**To sum it up in one sentence:** Jingle bells, Ronald yells, and Draco Malfoy smells (literally).

**Note2:** The characterizations in this work of fanfiction are often times exaggerated to the point of ludicrous silliness. I don't truly believe that these characters would actually behave in such manners. Then again, Ginny and co. aren't even real. So there you go.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Ginny, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Draco, Voldemort or anything related to Harry Potter. Please don't sue me.

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**_The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley_**

**Chapter 1: Dear Diary Once More**

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_November 28_

When one is nearing Christmas time, it is safe to say that one is usually in a very jolly mood. It is also safe to say that one would be safe from evil stalkers/psychopaths/dark lord accomplices. Or any variant of your common everyday rogue. However, I, Ginny Weasley, seem to have committed some unmentionable and unforgivable sin in some distant past life, because I proudly possess the title of Unluckiest Person Ever. And though it is Christmas time, I find myself worrying over who it is that wants to kill me. No wonder this is called the jolliest season of the year.

I suppose on the bright side, it is not even Christmas yet and I am getting presents. And if I were able to embrace that bright side, I would delude myself in feeling oddly special (something you don't feel often when you live in a house with six older brothers). But negativity is so much easier for me. (Trelawney is always clucking her tongue at my 'negative energy'). Listen, it's honestly not my fault. I have a history, my family has a history, my friends have a history, even our _pets_ have a history of somehow getting entwined in the dark arts.

Now, to get to the real point—on the darker, overpowering side of the matter, it is not even Christmas yet and I'm getting presents from mysterious unknowns.

Yes, I can hear you gasping—why, how horrid! My sympathies for you, Ginny. But there's more: It's a diary. If you didn't know, I had an itty-bitty unfortunate incident with another diary a few years back. It was rather impacting. I suppose that's what happens when a powerful wizard tries to brainwash you.

And alright. I will admit that just because someone has anonymously sent me a gift, it does not mean that someone is out to murder me. But at the very least, it is the work of an ill-advised prankster. I'm not particularly bright girl—not like Hermione is. Occasionally, I wear socks that don't match. So what? I am not completely stupid. And I most certainly do not suffer from short-term memory loss. I am not going to fall for the same vice twice, not if I can help it.

I planned on throwing it away. A girl like me has virtually no use for a diary, except perhaps fuel for the Gryffindor fire. It gets surprisingly drafty in the common room without it.

But just as I neared the roaring chasm of doom, seeking to banish this evil and potent talisman into nothingness for eternity--Harry, Herm and Ron came sauntering in. I _told_ you that I had the worst sort of luck. In fact, it's best if everyone steered clear of me. For the good of mankind, I am willing to lead a hermitic life.

By Murphy's Law, it is only natural that the trio noticed the diary, especially since I had been using all of my mind power to lead their attention away from it. Not that I blame Harry or Ron or Hermione for noticing it. Whoever sent it to me had a consider amount of money to spend. It looks like a million gallons, which is far more than I've ever been able to say about myself.

It doesn't seem fair that evil things should often times look so pretty. Like Malfoy, for example. I will admit he looks very pretty at times, especially when his tie is slightly loosened and his hair is slightly mussed and—well, the point is that he is reasonably nice to look at. (Except that time when I hexed him. He did not look all that attractive as Bogey Man. Thank God) . But his aura reeks of such sinister intent, no one can stand to be near him for long, lest his aura rub off on you. It is so clearly obvious that justice does not exist in this world, yet the trio still persists. I, being a wise woman of sixteen, have moved beyond hopeless naiveté...Actually, Harry and company are probably just attention-whoring. Everyone knows it.

Anyway, I realized then that I would have to explain to Harry, Herm, and Ron about the perpetrator.

Ron: Who would send you a diary like that?

Me: (Huffily) If I knew, I wouldn't be lolling about the common room, would I? I would be out there, dishing out much deserved arse kicking!

Harry: Pffffft! (Yes, he really did say 'pffffft'). All of you lot are BLIND. This is why people die—because they fail to prepare themselves for what is right in front of their eyes. Who do you THINK did this? Neville's grandmother's purse? This has Voldemort's slimy name all over it. It's so blatant, it should be a crime.

Hermione: Right, because it's in Voldemort's interest to send expensive diaries to teenage girls residing in Hogwarts. How could I have been so stupid?

Harry: _Open your eyes_, Granger. Voldemort has a history of dabbling with diaries! She's living proof! (Points at me. I don't have the heart to tell Harry that pointing isn't polite).

Hermione: I doubt he'd use the same trick twice. It goes against some super villain code of conduct.

Harry: Honestly, were you always this idiotic, or has all the dust from those books you read eaten your brain? Ever heard of reverse psychology? Just because Ginny won't expect it is _exactly_ the reason to send her a little gift. It's probably filled with venom. Or something. Well, I did hear of this one diary, given to a muggle tailor in Belgium—the leather of the book turned his skin a putrid green color—true story, you know—

(I drop said book).

Ron: I hate to say it, mate—but you're fucking insane.

Harry: (Scowls).

Hermione: Ginny? Do you have any clue who it might have been? Secret admirers, perhaps—

Ron: Great, are you crazy too?

Hermione: (With one eyebrow raised. We were in dangerous waters now). I beg your pardon?

Ron: Why would you go and ask my innocent baby sister a question like that? I thought you were the sensible one of our lot. She's obviously too young to be thinking about boys.

Me: Stop being a bigot, Ron. I've had boyfriends before.

Ron: Oh, yes, right—Michael Corner, wasn't it? Well, he wasn't much of a man, was he? Not much of a boy, either. Not much of anything, to be quite frank.

Me: Michael was very manly! And if you've forgotten, I had a thing with Dean and Dean must be a man in your books, since he's your mate.

Ron: Yea, well. S'not the point. The point is that you're not dating anyone now, nor will you be dating anytime soon. Not under my watch.

Hermione: Alright, alright, shut up, you two. We still haven't figured out what's happened here.

Ron: (Looking surprisingly thoughtful). It was probably Dumbledore's doing.

Harry: (Face lights up). _Yea_. Like he sent me my invisibility cloak, _anonymously_.

Hermione: But Harry, that was your dad's. He was just passing it on, as he should.

Harry: So? Maybe the diary was Mr. Weasley's. You don't know that it wasn't.

Hermione: I thought you said it was from You-Know-Who?

Harry: I said 'maybe.' What, do you think I know everything? I don't pretend to, unlike some people. (Yes, Harry was feeling a little snippy today).

Ron: Maybe it's a special diary. Maybe it's got, er, hidden magical properties, or some rubbish like that.

Hermione: What do you think, Ginny?

Me: Um.

Ron: Do you reckon its worth over a galleon, this?

Harry: (Scratching his head). I dunno…

Hermione: (Glares). Honestly, who cares?

The verdict was that I was to write in it. I think they are all quite batty and possibly in on this whole trick in the first place. Git Ron would do it. Nervous Harry might, too, if persuaded at a vulnerable moment. Hermione…Hermione probably hates me anyway, because I refused to be in her little elitist humanitarian club—Skew, was it? Or something like that. Maybe it was called Spew. I can't be bothered to remember.

After much deliberation, the three of them decided FOR ME that it would be OK for me to write in it. I think they simply grew tired of discussing me and my small artifact. So to put me out of their way, they told me there was nothing to worry about. Ha—I didn't buy that line even at age five. Harry recanted his earlier speech on why it had to have been Voldemort. Herm says that a diary is a good way to process your thoughts. Ron told her I didn't like to think. I should have socked him.

The point is that I will do no such thing. Write, I mean.

...Which, coincidentally, is exactly what I'm doing right now. It's just that I made a scene of the whole deal, acting furious at their conclusion and telling them to 'shove it' in inappropriate places…and so now I am very lonely, pretending to fume (alone) in my dorm.

I think they rather think of me as a dog.

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_November 29_

A recollection of what has happened today in life:

Woke up. Ate breakfast. Ate chocolate. Ate homework. (Well alright, not really the latter. But it's not for lack of trying).

Then I rolled around bed for a while, reading Teen Witch Weekly. Although, I've never understood the obligation that every teenage girl feels to read these trashy magazines relating to such non-important topics as, "How To Pluck Your Eyebrows: The Right Way!"

Is it the natural flow of estrogen in all of us that compels us to do so? So, for example, if a certain girl doesn't feel any impulses to read these magazines, does that mean that I, I mean she, is not really a woman?

Errgh, too much philosophy for one day, as I'm sure you'd agree. Anyway, here's a gem: "How To Get A Boyfriend In Less Than A Month".

Honestly, this magazine has no tact. They write about three things: a) How to make yourself look alluring enough to acquire your very own beau. b) Why boys are so great. c) A never-ending list of the most eligible wizards in the entire world, written by half-witted drooling females. Who use the word 'fit' every other sentence.

Personally, I believe that I have come up with a much better enterprise (than trashy teen magazines, I mean): Owl order boyfriends. It would be an immediate hit. Like blind dates, only you don't have to go anywhere. You don't even have to change out of your pyjamas. They come wrapped in the ribbon of your choice. Complete satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back, and a one month warranty just in case your new love has some hidden surprises, and not the good sort either. I'm sure there must be others like me, others who are quite done with searching around for suitable males. I could go patent this spiffy idea now and rake in the money. Perhaps then gaggles of handsome men will follow me. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to start such a business. And even if I did know how, with my immense luck, it will probably go bankrupt in the first hour.

Still, there is no harm in reading such ineloquent text, at least until I get rich. There is nothing wrong with exercising my literate abilities. I'll probably have to read handfuls of lusty love letters a day once I'm famous.

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_December 1_

Christmas has finally become far too superficial to be tolerable. They might as well call it the 'When-All-The-Signs-In-Hogsmeade-Flash-Green-And-Red" season. "A diamond necklace for her! ON SALE NOW!" says one, or "A sexy pair of boxers for him! 30 OFF ONLY UNTIL WEDNESDAY!"

I don't really know who would buy a lad boxers for Christmas. I would be pretty disappointed if I ended up getting under things for the Yuletide.

I would ignore Christmas shopping this year altogether, but then I would have several people add me to their hit lists. So I succumb to tradition.

Harry: Book on paranoia. I hope he'll take the hint. Then again, maybe taking the hint wouldn't be such a good idea for him. He could grow depressed. He might try to off himself.

Ron: Underwear. Is that mean? Probably. I'll throw in an extra box of chocolates. If he's nice. IF.

Hermione: A "sewing machine" for her clothes making fetish. She's been talking nonstop about getting one. I heard it was far more efficient than what we're used to. I don't believe it, but it's her present, not mine.

And that concludes Ginny Weasley's Intense Christmas Shopping List.

Hurrah, I am done. More sleep for Ginny.

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_December 2_

Ron is mad at me. Poor thing thinks I care.

He's angry with me because I caught a cold from being out in the freezing cold with nothing but a thin robe on. I had forgotten my coat indoors! It wasn't like I was going to run all the way up several flights of moving stairs just to retrieve it. I don't see why he has to get in a right state when _I'm_ the one who has to endure the burning throat, clogged nose, and scorching fever. I hate fever the most. It makes me look like I'm blushing at everything.

For example:

Harry: Hey, Ginny.

Me: Unnnh. Hello, Harry. (Face is furiously red from fever).

Ron: (Shakes head). Ginny, stop blushing at Harry. He's just saying hi.

Me: I'm not blushing! (Face turns redder from indignation).

Ron: (To Harry) She likes you.

Harry: (Looks smug).

Maybe I'll lie here on my bed, writing my will. I can feel death's woolly hands pulling at me.

Oh, bollocks. Never mind. That was just my scarf caught on the drawer handle.

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_December 3_

The snow has all melted, and I am officially in a horrid mood.

In honor of this sad occasion, I have written a poem.

_If I can stop one snowflake from melting, I shall not live in vain. _

It sucks, doesn't it? You can tell me the truth. I won't shriek in fright and fury and rip you with my bare hands before hurling you into the fire. I promise. Oh, God, I must be really awfully lonely.

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_December 4_

Hermione says it's not possible to die of boredom, but I tend to disagree. My boredom causes me to go into a sort of coma. I lie in on the common room sofa very, very still. So still, that Ron stumbled upon my rigid body and asked me if I was alive. Suspect he was disappointed when I blinked at him.

Ron is even more furious with me for scraping by with a 50 on my potions essay. He gave me his annual 'Big Brother' speech a little early. He told me to stop focusing so much on boys. He told me that boys were silly and stupid and not worth my attention. Slightly regretfully (because he was quite clearly under wrong impressions) I told him that not all males were like him.

Seriously, though. He could have just said, stop mooning over Harry (which I am not), Ginny. Go study, Ginny. Don't do this, Ginny. Do this instead, Ginny. You're a good girl, Ginny. Roll over and beg for a treat, Ginny.

Moreover, his advice would make more sense if I had any boys to concentrate on. None seem to be much interested in me, and really, it's sad that a girl of sixteen hasn't even properly snogged a lad yet. Or any single person for that matter, but that's beside the point. Am I really so disfigured?

Or maybe, as I had always hoped, it's not me, but this school. Maybe something happened to all its inhabitants while I was not looking and turned them all into ignoramuses. Maybe this is Make Ginny Feel Bad year. It isn't unusual for me to be last to board the clue train. But I doubt the problem lies within my schoolmates. All of my female classmates can't stop talking about their object of affection. And they can't stop comparing snogs. Over 99.9 percent of them, I bet, has had some sort of sexual encounter with the opposite sex. I just bet. That's just it then. I am simply a statistical anomaly. Grand.

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_December 6_

My Life Problems:

1) Achieve expressing my opinions and thoughts out loud, to clear any misconceptions about me being shy. But what exactly does this entail? Lots of yelling and pointless brawling? I'd rather not. Threats? Random rebellions? I am so uninformed on how to be a proper teenager. Is there some kind of handbook for this?

2) I'm flunking Potions.

3) People fail to understand me. I fail to understand them. It's a mutual problem.

4) I don't have a boyfriend.

5) My brother is a total ponce.

6) Boredom. Coma. I have to get rid of it. Soon.

7) No snow. Am not feeling the spirit of Christmas.

8) I need to figure out who gave this diary to me before I make like Harry and blame everything on Voldemort.

But perhaps the newest and biggest problem has only just risen.

At the end of last year, Dumbledore decided that 'in light of recent events, the students of our dear castle should be offered a chance for emotional therapy,' a.k.a you-children-are-so-screwed-up. 'Self Discovery' class was open to students who needed a little help and guidance in their personal and social life:

Ron has been begging me to join.

It is a fact of life that when your brother begs you to join a class such as Self Discovery, one is a hapless loser. The former statement verily applies to me.

Ron gave me a pamphlet on what this class was about. I don't need to read it. I was so offended by his implications that I sat there gaping like a fish. He took his as one of my 'eh, my brain's on leave at the moment, just have your way with me' moments and threw my edited schedule in my lap. In the 10:00-11:00 block (used to be glorious, glorious free period) I now have a course called 'Self Discovery'. And in case you're wondering, yes, this does wonders for my self-esteem.

In conclusion:

9) Survive Self Discovery. In addition, find myself a paper bag to wear over my head, which will be hanging in shame.

As the ancient and sage philosophers say: Life is a bitch.


	2. Chemically Imbalanced

** Notes: **Speedy update, yes? Well, hope you enjoy. Ginny's a bit of a hypochondriac in this one.

**Disclaimer:** If I had a dollar for each time I said, 'I don't own Harry Potter etc. etc.' I would be unbelievably rich.

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_**The Hopefully Non-Magic Diary of Ginny Weasley**_

**Chapter 2: Chemically Imbalanced**

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_December 7_

As I sigh for the umpteenth time in a single second, I have come to the conclusion that I am one of the millions today suffering from chronic depression. Not that it's much of a surprise. My face is depressing, my hair is depressing, my shoes are depressing, the dirt under my nails are depressing…and this list is getting entirely too depressing, too. The word depressing is depressing, so perhaps I will refer to it was 'chemically imbalanced' from now on.

And anyway, my chemically imbalanced state was inevitable. One can only stand being stuck in a room full of lifeless losers for so long before the influence gets to one's head. Yes, I have begun my daily therapy sessions. Though I don't think it could qualify as therapy if the patient is not willing. I just sit there and wish I were somewhere else—where exactly is the brain healing in that?

To make matters worse, the boy who sits next to me in SD (Self Discovery) tragically mistakes his bogey as a sort of delicacy. On a regular basis. He also seems to like to use me as a napkin, to which I squeak loudly and duck. He looks confused by this. It's understandable, as napkins do not usually move on their own accord. I find myself straying from the point, however, so I will get back to what I was really trying to say.

Undeniably and inarguably, LIFE SUCKS. I am at a point where I just want to shout 'POOPY' over and over again. But that would be silly. I'll save myself the embarrassment.

That is all there is to say on the matter. I just want to stay in my dorm and eat chocolate.

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_Later_

But you see? The worst part of it all, if one could pinpoint such a thing, is Malfoy (one who is incessantly bothersome and a general mar in human society). He drips with such superiority, that he might as well wear a sign reading, ' WARNING: ELITIST GIT. MAY GIVE YOU URGE TO POUND HIS HEAD IN'. Perhaps I shall take the liberty of making said sign for him.

I've never seen a boy so deeply in love with himself. If I have chronic depression, he has chronic narcissism. It's beyond anyone's help, but there you are—that is why we are all here, in SD. For we are all helpless and suffering from incurable, long term things.

I mean, really, he opens his mouth and out comes something else about himself. 'Are you mad? You certainly can't expect a Malfoy to partake in this undignified activity, can you?' he says as he frowns a bit and continues to look down his nose at everyone. I swear to the gods that I will do something rash the next time he mentions his lavish manor. Like botch his body into four quarters. Then I can plead chronic insanity. I don't even know why Malfoy is in the class. It's not like he's the type to admit to himself that he is batty. Perhaps he is simply there to make the rest of us feel worse about ourselves. How useful.

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_December 10_

I cannot believe this monumental moment.

1) I have made a pseudo-friend.

2) I have made a fool of myself. Verily.

The latter is not so surprising, but it's worth mentioning.

On the subject of number one: her name is Alette. I have spoken to her directly a few times in class. She is a dear child, albeit a little scatterbrained. It seems all of my company are not completely normal, but that's my curse.

Anyway, I was trying to write her a note during class today, as most normal teenage girls do in class. Except , perhaps I am not so skilled in the art of note passing, for I attempted to throw it behind me to where Alette sat, two seats behind. Have I ever told you of my horrible aim? One day I will tell you about the time that I accidentally knocked poor Mum's nose with the vase Grandfather gave her. I was going for Ron, and to this day I maintain this motto: It's the thought that counts.

But yes, since you seem to be wondering. It landed in the wrong lap: The lap of Mr. Narcissus himself, who happened to sit right behind me. Most likely breathing down my neck the whole time, trying to decide what to tease me about next. I nearly peed my pants as I saw his lips curl, but refrained. Thank the Lord. There is nothing worse than very damp knickers and skirts.

Malfoy beamed (though on him, even a beam looks like a sinister stare) having acquired my note. I was mortified. But not as mortified as when the stupid whale raised his hand. Naturally, Professor Ritzenthaler called on him, looking a bit flustered at being interrupted during his long tirade of something nonsensical or another, like hygiene.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?" he gazed questioningly, his hands flying to his glasses, currently sliding down his nose.

"I've found a note, sir," Malfoy said. My heart stopped beating.

"Written in my class?" Professor Ritz clucked his tongue, his face turning pink. Strangely enough, nothing seemed to ruffle his feathers more than a student not paying attention in his class. "Someone's not been paying attention. Someone is asking for a detention." He looked around the room for any heartfelt confessions. None. Malfoy continued, and I thought his face might break, the way he was smiling. What a large git. I bet he's so git-y, he makes other gits cry.

"Well, I'm sure you'd like to know, as do we all, sir. I could just _give_ you the note, though I already know who wrote it—"

Like I would let him reveal my identity. I could not afford to have a detention. It would only be more proof for Ron. In reaching this conclusion, I mistakenly decided to reach over. I used my hand to clamp the bugger's mouth shut. The effect was instantaneous. I wondered why I had not done this more often, when he talked too much. While his voice was muffled however, his face creased into a glare.

"Mmff gmmff!" he protested vehemently. Professor Ritz looked very nervous now.

"Er—Miss Weasley, I'm going to ask you to release Mr. Malfoy—"

Oh bugger, I thought. Wouldn't you, if you landed yourself in such a dilemma? Sometimes, my body moves on it's own accord. Like a muscle spasm. Anyway, I did as I was told and detached myself from Malfoy. Burning red from embarrassment, and wondering what the hell I was thinking (or perhaps I was not, and therein lies the problem). I quickly made up another weak and lame cover. Oh, well.

"A bug," I lied. "A bug was fluttering about. It would have been unfortunate for Malfoy to have swallowed a bug." I looked around. There was not a movement in the air. " It seems now, though, that the fly is gone. Good for him. Or her, as it could be."

I probably looked like a large, bright red Christmas bauble. Malfoy looked disbelieving, as well as the rest of the class. Professor Ritz absentmindedly nodded.

"Very well, very well…." He returned to his teachings, forgetting all about the incident. I am grateful for his slight lunacy. I thank any deity up there for his forgetfulness.

And then, I breathed.

But the trouble was not over. Malfoy seemed discouraged for a while, but after class, as everyone else was filing out, I found Malfoy trying to sneak his way to Professor Ritz' desk with the note. Having another go, was he? Quick as a fox (HA) I blocked his way.

"Hello, Weasley," he regarded me in a bored manner. And how dare he!

"Move." I did not. My resistance was made of steel.

"I said, 'move,'" he repeated commandingly.

"Why? Where do you think you're going?" I asked.

"To inform the loony bat who wrote this, naturally. Did you honestly think I would pass up a chance to land you in detention?" he sneered at me.

"Yes," I said, hoping my kindness would persuade him to back down.

"You insult me." He sulked slightly. (I am horrified when I think of this, because at this precise moment, I almost thought that he looked pretty when he pouted).

"Oh, come now, Malfoy! You will not report me! It was only a little note!"

"Well, I'm sure it'd be fun to see you try to stop me." In anger, I watched his pink lips move wider and wider into a garish smirk. And then, he tried to dodge me. But I acted fast yet again. I realize now that I have a serious lack of judgment, and should have rather accepted the detention. Something came over me—perhaps a strange dust particle in the air. Because I grabbed his annoying little face, and kissed hi

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_Later_

Apologies. Writing about _that_ made me feel a bit faint.

After, well…'the kiss' was over (in a second, mind you—as soon as I realized what I was doing), I reeled back in disgust, as did he.

"Weasley!" he cried, aghast. I gaped.

"Oh, God! I'm contaminated!" I screamed.

"You! I'll never get this filth off! If you've given me any of your sickly germs, I swear I'll tell father!"

"Well, it stopped you from tattling, didn't it? You should know better than to tattle."

"What makes you think I won't go '_tattle_' now?" His nose was scrunched up just a fraction, and he was sneering once more.

"If you do, I'll kiss you again." (I was lying.)

He seemed to be outsmarted (or maybe the right word is 'out-grossed') then. And he actually believed me, the arrogant pansy.

We both went on our ways, feeling extremely dirty for even touching one another.

I must take many baths now and use up a third of the world's running water _and_ rub my lips raw. I swear I will never go within ten yards of him ever again. Never ever ever ever ever. This is a promise. To myself, to Malfoy, to the world.

I am quite serious this time when I say that I might be insane. I have no idea what possessed me. I have no recollection of getting it in my head that I should make lip contact with Malfoy. I can't pinpoint which thought led to another and another until I finally decided that the best course of action would be to peck Malfoy. It's almost like it wasn't my idea at all. Have you never heard of Multiple Personality Disorder? I'm frightened. Wait, no I'm not.

* * *

_Even Later_

I can't believe I gave my first kiss to that overgrown chicken.


End file.
